


kusudama

by lady_peony



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clamp inspired aus, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Tokyo Babylon/X:1999, xxxHolic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-22 13:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16599056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: "I don't think it's me you have to worry about right now," Seiji says.





	1. moon bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for potential body horror and brief description of injuries.

_"If a person sacrifices himself to save another, then that person should know just what kind of scars that action leaves on the rescued one."_

 _\- xxxHolic_

 

—

 

Shuuichi jerks awake. The hushed tap of wood against wood, a shoji door closing. A nearly inaudible creak of the floor, under footsteps.

"Stay awake long?" Seiji's hand reaches up behind his head. The hairs of his short ponytail float free, fall lower. It would barely reach past his collarbones now, Shuuichi knows. 

He had slept some. Just enough to stay awake through the afternoon history class tomorrow. Shuuichi sits up, fumbles for the lamp beside him to light it, watches the flame hiss up and settle into the dark. 

Only then, does he turn around and says, low, "How bad is it this time?"

Seiji's back was to him. The closet door open, a pillow tucked under his arm. His own futon was already laid out in parallel to Shuuichi's own, the blankets smooth and unmarked to Shuuichi's creased ones. His voice pitches higher now, half-sharp, half-soothing. "Did you think I wouldn't come back? _Really_ , Shuuichi, how many times have we been through those woods?"

"Take off your jacket then."

Seiji stands still for a heartbeat, and laughs, once. "I wasn't intending to sleep in it. Is this an invitation, then?"

Shuuichi's next words come out sharp-tipped, like the end stroke of a spell. "I don't have time for this. _Your jacket_ , Seiji."

The lamplight glows dimly, touching on Seiji's shoulders, the ends of his hair.

Seiji's back moves, shrugs off his jacket, his hands pulling off one sleeve and the next. His shirt under that. Folds them both into the closet and turns around.

Shuuichi's teeth press down on his tongue. 

It wasn't...wasn't bad. But it wasn't _nothing_. A bruise on one side of his jaw, a deep violet-yellow moon. Slashes over the side of the right shoulder, ragged and probably still bleeding. No broken bones. Small mercies. 

Standing, Seiji breathes in and out. Expression smooth, untroubled. "These can wait."

Shuuichi watches a red droplet wind downwards from Seiji's shoulder onto the floor. Seiji's hand drifts up to the wound. Presses against it, lightly, experimenting. 

" _I_ don't want you to." Shuuichi says, savage. 

His glance shifts to Seiji's fingers, now dipped red. Tries to lower his voice to something softer. Gentler. "Tomorrow is a school day, and this should be quick. Will you...?"

Finally, finally, Seiji draws closer. He sits. Holds out his left wrist. 

Shuuichi sits too, facing Seiji, knees nearly touching. He reaches forward. Hesitates. Says,"You can look away, if you want."

Shuuichi is close enough to see the tiny dip of Seiji's chin. The lashes of his eyes draw down with the movement, faintly cast with gold by the lamp. The line of his mouth is flat, undisturbed.

Shuuichi's hand closes over Seiji's wrist, gentle.

The gecko over Shuuichi's left arm stops. The black shape glows into white into red, a dull ember on flesh. 

The bruise on Seiji's jaw shrinks, a puddle dissipating a day after the rain. The slashes on his shoulder, stop, closing together into old rust-brown, then slip away line by line, thinner and thinner until they turn a mere pale red, then nothing at all. 

Shuuichi breathes, in, out, when he feels his own skin splitting, screaming right under his shoulder, a dull throb after, in his own jaw, and lower than that, wire threading his lungs tight like he had been running, running for miles without pause.

He had wanted to do this. The afterimages would pass.

Shuuichi opens his eyes, sees Seiji's face before his. Eyes dark in his pale, still face, lit coals and white ash. 

Shuuichi shudders. 

Another wave of pain. The stinging kiss of a string springing forward from fingertips, an arrow cutting the sky. How long had he been holding on? 

Just a little longer. Another ten more breaths. Another five. 

"Shuuichi. Enough."

From the corner of his gaze, he could see his gecko curled in, tail flicking around, still red. He could still keep going. Just a little more. 

"I said, it was _enough_!"

His fingers were frozen. He can't. 

He can't move away.

Shuuichi blinks.

The oil in the lamp had nearly burned away, the flame now a murmur of what it had been before.

Seiji was on his feet, standing back towards the wall. Seiji's throat moves, once, swallows. 

When had he let Seiji go? The memory, a vague sensation comes back. A hand over Shuuichi's own, a sharp yank upwards.

"I'm all right," Shuuichi says, feeling blood rush back into his fingers. "I only need to worry about next month, now. Or next week, knowing you."

Seiji slides forward a step. Doesn't move closer. "I don't think it's me you have to worry about right now," Seiji says. 

Shuuichi tries to stand, to move back to his futon. Seiji's there, suddenly, a hand cupped firmly around Shuuichi's shoulder, another against his back. "Sleep now," he says, and the room goes dark.

 

—

 

"This may kill you one day," Seiji says, when they're both lying down. His head is turned so that he's staring straight at Shuuichi. "Aren't you afraid?"

"It's too late for stupid questions," Shuuichi says. 

(He doesn't say: It had been too late a year ago, two years ago, even more, back when they were in the woods, both young and all of ten and nine years old. When Seiji had blood trickling from his forehead from a fall. When all Shuuichi had wanted to do was help, and found out what he could do.) 

A flicker goes through Seiji's eyes, something strange and rarely seen, but Shuuichi is too tired to talk further. He'll figure it out in the morning, he thinks, looking at Seiji, and isn't sure whether he or Seiji closes their eyes first to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collection of vaguely CLAMP-inspired AU oneshots for horrible exorcists. No idea if another part will go up for a different fusion work, but inspiration is fickle.
> 
> This one is like, hurt-comfort with minimal comfort for the exorcists double-birthday dates. whoops. This one gets to be the 'What if Shuuichi had magical healing powers and used them on Seiji?" au. 
> 
> Title meaning explained [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kusudama).


	2. afterimage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natori makes a deal with a tree. Matoba thinks it's a bad move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief description of injuries and murderous foliage possibly.

_"But things like this happen in Tokyo every day."_ _-Tokyo Babylon_

 

—

 

Outside, the rain had stopped. 

Water droplets hang glimmering on the tips of the roof eaves and pine needles. The white stones lining the path outside glow faintly, like large fallen pearls. 

From the window floats in the faint smoky scent of moss and ferns, the shifting sounds of sparrows and warblers dropping from branch to branch to their nests, mate calling to mate.

The tea in Seiji's mouth tastes burnt. Cold, little better than dishwater at this point.

The clink of the cup in the room is no louder than a single raindrop slipping to the ground. 

He didn't show today either.

 

—

 

He makes quiet inquiries. On his own, of course. 

He doesn't need to stir up unnecessary fuss. Subtle mentions, casual curiosity dropped in conversations. 

Nothing. 

Takuma's daughter brings tea and slices of chestnut uiro-mochi in the same room Seiji remembers visiting. Takuma has heard nothing, he said, but his face darkens. Worried, worried and unable to do anything about it.

Seiji even asks Yorishima. 

He too, knows nothing. 

"If you see him, tell him this." Yorishima's eyes are narrowed, but the usual irritation in his tone, now flatly serious, betrays his agitation. "He borrowed a scroll of mine for reading last month. I expect it to be returned."

Seiji nods, steps away to contemplate his next move. 

 

—

 

The clan name still has heft. A hundred, hundred chains and affiliations and tangled roots with names both exorcist and human. They will remember what they owe, if reminded. 

He writes to a prefecture administrator to the north. 

Writes to a clan affiliate's third cousin, a member of the House of Councillors. 

Writes to an old business contact in Tokyo, the one with ties to press and media relations. 

He opens another envelope, reads the missive, and tosses it on top of piles in front of him, all scattered haphazardly on the low table.

_Dear Matoba-sama,_

_Our regrets at our late response..._

_Dear Matoba-sama,_

_It is to our embarrassment to report that we were not able to find the person you sought for..._

_Dear Matoba-sama,_

_Please accept our humble regards, and our sincere apologies..._

His fingers pick up another letter, and the paper slides out. This one, he recognizes. Where, under his original request, he had deliberately attached another shorter question, asking _Who are the Sakurazukamori?_

He reads. A round of polite deferrals and surreptitious lines of _I had heard from so-and-so..._ or _according to unofficial reports..._

The Matoba have their own records certainly. But he searches between the lines of smooth calligraphy, stores away any scrap he may use later. The story is nothing new, not to Seiji. Old enmity, old clans. Betrayal. Blood. 

 

—

 

The billboard by the town's thoroughfare has been replaced. This poster promises, against a glossy city backdrop, that a new romantic film by actress Tomomi would be released that spring.

Seiji rolls up his car window. Sees behind the glass a blur of grey steel and weaving threads of light, before his eyes close. 

 

—

 

"Do I have to say this again?"

"Yes."

"Why would you want to know? What use would this even be to you, Matoba?" The voice through the receiver flickered in and out, words dispassionate.

"Its use? Secrets can be dangerous. Should I not be concerned?"

"Not for you."

" _And you_?"

Nothing, except a slight hitch in breath, nearly imperceptible. A muted dial tone. 

The phone that was in Seiji's hand a moment ago falls to dangle on the edge, hitting against the table leg with a ungraceful thump.

Seiji himself was gone from the room. 

Eyes fixed on the winged paper he had whispered to, fluttering from palm to phone to window, slipping out between the lattice. He can't lose it. He won't. 

 

—

 

"Natori."

On the roof, the cement echoes under his footsteps, the night wind just dipped into low enough temperatures to nip the skin and fingertips. 

Natori has his back to him, looking at the sky. The only lighting comes from the old roof lights, amber circles melting into stone and shadows.

"There's nothing more to say." He shifts as Seiji gets closer, a mere two steps from his back. "And anyways," he turns his head to face Seiji fully, "don't you have better things to attend to then meeting with me?" 

His face shows no agitation, no restlessness. No dark undercircles under his spectacles. 

"It was on my way," Seiji says. 

Natori shrugs, accepting enough. "Well, as you see I'm still around. Goodbye then." He pushes away from the wall he had been leaning on, makes a motion as if to leave.

"Natori. Wait." His hand shoots out, a lock closing without any conscious thought. Fingers over wrist. 

Natori looks at him. 

Seiji's hand passes through. Flesh and bone turned insubstantial, no more solid than mist would be.

Natori ripples. 

Fair hair spills to dark, bursts into waves to fall past his waist. His face wavers, the color falling away to a chalky white. His eyes shrink, pupils to dots, faintly outlined with red, and his lips thin, cool and immovable.

"You're that shiki." Seiji steps back, his hands dropping to his own side. Empty. "His first." 

The shiki nods. "I am."

Seiji's hands close. Open. He brings up his eyes, gaze sharp, and says, simply, "Where is he?"

The shiki looks back at him, unfaltering. He had seen her around when he had been younger, when his hair had not yet grown long, when Natori called him by a different name.

"He had a message I was to pass to you."

"That was not what I asked—"

"'Live well,' he said."

Seiji listens. Steps forward again, once. Twice. Every line of his body is calm. 

His voice is not. He keeps it down, leashes the fury between his teeth. "Is he afraid to see me now? If he wants to tell me so, he can do so with his own words." 

The shiki looks at him and Seiji knows then: she feels sorry for me.

It's galling.

The paper Seiji had sent, followed, crumples under his right hand. The charm does not answer. Does not move.

 

—

 

He can't see. 

He can't focus on anything except dim shapes. Colors flash by, black, white. Someone's arm is under his neck, another under his knees.

The right side of his face aches, an ember pressing viciously against skin. Something is dripping down the side of his cheek. Not tears, he realizes. 

He hears a swear. Shuuichi's voice. A piece of cloth lowers, touches gently against his jaw and lifts. Shuuichi is muttering something, low and indecipherable, furious. 

A pressure builds, the kind that thrums under veins and skin before the last syllable releases a spell. Seiji would call out a warning, if his tongue would move.

Inexplicably, something soft and light lands against his cheek. His arm. Snow? It's not winter yet. There's more and more of them.

The smell of cherry blossoms surrounds them, redolent and heavy. 

Seji's neck prickles. He can't see it happening. But he can feel it. 

His legs touch the ground. The hand by his shoulder pulls him in, pressed close enough to hear Shuuichi's strained breathing, a rapid rise-and-fall of his chest with each heartbeat.

There's a tear, something pressing against and pulling apart a wall. A stranger is there.

Something snaps out above him. A paper chain? 

Another set of syllables flit out, and the chain burns blue, into smoky ash. 

A voice speaks, calm and measured. "You called me here."

Shuuichi's body tenses. "Who are you?"

It's hard to focus, but Seiji pushes down the pain. A scarlet blur resolves into a red glove. A dark coat. He can't see any higher than that. There's a mass of a tall, dark trunk, pink blossoms shivering atop grasping branches behind the stranger.

"I'm the guardian of the tree. But if it's a name you need. Well. Some may call me the Sakurazukamori." A wry edge rests under the title. "It's nice to meet you, Natori-san."

"What business do you have with me, then, Sakurazukamori-san?" The very embodiment of politeness. Shuuichi would have his lips drawn back, a smile bright with sugar-spun charm.

Slowly, Seiji feels the rest of him lowered onto the ground, and _no_ , he wants to say, _no, don't let go_ — 

Shuuichi moves to stand in front of him. 

Seiji can't see either of their expressions. "I did say you had called me. I mean neither of you harm," the Sakurazukamori says. "If you wish to help him—"

"And what it is that you want?" Shuuichi says, jumping two steps ahead of the conversation. Expectant and on edge.

The next sentences exchanged are in murmurs, the Sakurazukamori's head bending forward to whisper something to Shuuichi. Mere snatches of words, and then—

"That's it?" Shuuichi says. Strangely careless, and light. "Nothing more?"

"It is said," the Sakurazukamori's hand turns to tug at his gloves, a careful motion, "that the Sakurazukamori's life will only end at the hands of someone they love most."

"That's impossible," Shuuichi says, "seeing that I have no one."

A pause. The Sakurazukamori is angry, Seiji thinks, angry and grieved, but he doesn't know why. "Is that why you called me," he says, a red glove closing into a fist. "For your own curiosity? Or was it for—"

His gaze shoots past Shuuichi. Right to where Seiji is watching them, his one good eye open, and the bleak apology from that green-gold stare strikes him.

Shuuichi is still. "I see." 

Shuuichi lets out a breath. Another. He doesn't turn around. "Very well," he says. "I accept those terms."

It happens in an instant.

Light surges from the Sakura tree, zips forward in a flurry of petals against Seiji's face. Mere sparks of pain, no sharper than pinpricks and it is over. 

Seiji sits up. His hand moves up. Touches his right eyelid. His right eye. 

Opens it. It can see. 

It sees perfectly well. As if it had never been scarred. As if it had never bled.

The first thing Matoba Seiji sees with both eyes:

Shuuichi standing to face him. He's not wearing his glasses. The stranger that was next to him is no longer there. 

Seiji opens his mouth to make a demand, hiss out his question of, 'What did you _do_ , Shuuichi— ?'

A thousand swirls of sakura petals fly as the words leave his mouth, hungry-quick as a storm. Shuuichi is devoured. Gone.

 

—

 

Seiji wakes. The vision in both eyes waver, until he focuses. 

"I'll find you," he says, to the empty room. "I promised."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tokyo babylon has a mess of characters and the best storytelling in tragic form that i've ever read
> 
> matoba loses an eye ergo natori becomes an ~~exorcist-actor-assassin~~ in this au and matoba is Not Happy about it


End file.
